


Robin's Birthday Meal

by GTRWTW



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Fluff, Birthday Party, Canon Compliant, Cheese, Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Fluffy Cheese, I Feel A Bit Sick Now, Light Smut, Music, Post TB, Post canon, Robin Turns 30, Songfic, Sort Of, Swearing, bait and switch, cheesy fluff, lyrics, soundtrack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28877274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GTRWTW/pseuds/GTRWTW
Summary: Robin heads out for the meal Ilsa has booked for her thirtieth birthday. But lo and behold, Ilsa has a surprise up her sleeve.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 34
Kudos: 62





	Robin's Birthday Meal

Robin arrived in Octavia Street early as requested; Ilsa had called her and explained that she wanted Robin's opinion on various things from her eyeshadow to her handbag, and Robin had agreed without really considering how strange it was that her usually composed friend appeared to be so flustered. Robin rang the doorbell and waited, her own satin handbag slung over her shoulder, her bare lower legs chilly in the October wind.

"Robin! Happy birthday," said Ilsa as she flung open the front door. Robin saw Nick appear briefly behind Ilsa's elbow, and he called out a birthday greeting as he dashed upstairs. Robin could hear the radio in the background.

_Your soul could never grow old, it's evergreen..._

"It's not my birthday any more," said Robin. Then she wondered why she'd said it. She usually enjoyed her birthdays. _You're getting to be like him_ , she thought to herself. Regardless, Ilsa ignored her.

"Well, I haven't seen you yet, so it is to me," she said, smiling. She grabbed her coat from a rack by the door and stepped outside, earning a puzzled glance from Robin.

"Didn't you want to get ready together?" asked Robin.

"Not exactly. A small change of plan. We're heading out now," replied Ilsa. An enigmatic smile settled on her lips and Robin knew she would get no more information. 

"Fine," said Robin, "lead the way."

"That's my girl," sang Ilsa.

***

A short Tube ride later, Robin found herself being pulled by the elbow towards a stone staircase that fronted a smart, modern bar. Ilsa swept her along; Robin barely registered her friend throwing greetings at the bar staff before Ilsa had led the way towards a neon sign saying 'The Hideaway'. Ilsa shoved the door open and they entered a romantically lit basement room with a long bar along the left wall, leather sofas along the right, and high tables scattered around. A DJ booth and a large open area in the centre told Robin exactly what kind of night this was going to be.

"Ilsa, what -"

"Surprise!" interjected Ilsa, determinedly optimistic in the face of Robin's incredulous expression. "I know you wouldn't have thrown yourself a party and I know you don't know an awful lot of people but I thought this would be a good chance to meet some," she gabbled. "None of my guests are aware it's your birthday. I thought I'd let you decide whether you want to tell them."

Robin was beyond caring that she was thirty, or that she had few friends in London. She thought it ridiculous that Ilsa had thrown her a party given her small social circle, but she supposed Ilsa had just wanted an excuse. She could live with that.

"Let's go with _not_ telling them, shall we?" she said pointedly, and Ilsa smiled.

"As you wish, birthday girl!" Ilsa yelled the last two words into the empty room. 

Laughing, Ilsa shoved Robin towards the bar and told her to get comfortable and not to even think about helping. Ilsa shot back outside to meet Nick and they returned carrying a large box covered with a sheet. Nick waved at Robin and then returned his hand to the underside of the box. Robin rolled her eyes and turned to the bar menu she'd been perusing.

The charming barman told Robin, over the sound of the cocktail shaker, that her drinks were on the house. She supposed she should have known; Ilsa was a lawyer. She lived and breathed details. Robin took her pornstar martini with thanks, thinking that the party might just be a good one after all.

***

Nine p.m., and the room was filling up; Robin had been surprised to see her brother, Jonathan, with a girl he introduced as Amy. Max and his boyfriend, Scott, arrived shortly afterwards and struck up easy conversation with the students. Robin cringed inwardly, remembering their previous meeting, but they seemed to be getting along fine, so she left them to it.

Robin had been even more surprised to realise that rather a lot of people she knew had turned up to celebrate her birthday. Vanessa and Oliver; Wardle and his wife, April; Andy, Barclay, and their wives; Pat, furious that she couldn't vape in the club; and, looking entirely out of place, Izzy Chiswell and a man named Hugo. Robin greeted everyone with genuine warmth, only glancing over their shoulders every few seconds to see whether a hulking, stubbled man had entered with them.

Robin awaited Strike's arrival with uncharacteristic impatience. She wanted to see his face, to look into his eyes, and know they were okay after the previous night. He had reassured her that everything would go on as normal, but she needed to see it for herself. She couldn't help feeling that everything had changed irrevocably.

Robin shook herself and headed to the bar for another drink.

***

Strike climbed the stone steps slowly, partly because of his rigid ankle, and partly because of the unfamiliar nervousness fizzing under his skin. Ilsa had only told him that morning that the birthday meal had been a mere ruse. When he'd asked why he hadn't been let in on the secret, Ilsa had cheerfully told him that he couldn't be trusted; he would have told Robin. While he had accepted begrudgingly that this was probably the case, he had wondered aloud why she couldn't have told him yesterday. Ilsa had fixed him with a no-nonsense stare and said, "don't try to tell me you didn't see her last night, Corm."

Strike had been wondering all day whether Ilsa was incredibly intuitive or simply well informed; had Robin told her new friend the intimate details of the previous night's exploits? Strike couldn't decide whether it would make him happier to know that Robin had kept her silence or immediately informed everyone she knew. He grinned a little to himself as he realised, deep down, that he'd rather like the latter. Approaching a set of wooden doors adorned by a sign saying 'The Hideaway', Strike pushed them open and walked casually into the club. 

Pulsing pop music assaulted his ears. It was not so loud that a conversation couldn't be held, but loud enough to cover most obligations. Loud music was freeing, Strike reflected. A sultry voice breathed suggestive lyrics over a techno beat.

_Make me your Aphrodite…_

Strike spotted her at the bar, sitting on a high stool, one leg crossed over the other. She had her back to him, and he allowed his eyes to rake over her body: pale, bare shoulders; strapless, skintight dress; glittering, pointed heels. Strike realised he'd stopped dead, and a pair of women on their way back from the bathrooms careered right into him. As he muttered apologies, she turned in her seat and saw him.

***

Robin had known his eyes were on her, and as she turned she was vindicated; he was looking at her with an intense, burning gaze that was almost obscene in such a public place. Robin felt her cheeks heat, but she didn't look away. She tried to convey everything she wanted to say to him with just her eyes, and maybe he understood her, because he started moving again, aiming directly for her.

The noise around her seemed to amplify, and as she listened to the song morph into another, she was irresistibly reminded of the previous night.

_Even though I shouldn't want it, I gotta have it…_

***

His hands had felt red-hot, his tongue like liquid fire; they had scrambled from the bar to the taxi to the flat in a heated mess, whispering hot sex words in each other's ears, grabbing at clothes and moaning recklessly. He had pushed her up against the wall in his kitchen, his long fingers tugging down the straps of her dress, his mouth pouring his lust into hers. He'd reached for the hem of her dress and dragged it up her thighs, sucking at her neck, grazing her earlobe with his teeth. Robin had moaned and opened her legs shamelessly, giving him permission, demanding his attention. He had complied, given her what she wanted; he'd given her everything, until the sun had started to rise and they'd fallen together into an intertwined sleep.

She had woken beside him, one leg hooked over his. She'd remained there for quite some time, not moving, just thinking. The night had been incredible, and she found that she didn't regret it at all. But she hoped that Strike felt the same way; she couldn't be certain that he wouldn't treat her with that blokish post-coital coolness designed to inform a woman that she shouldn't start organising weekend mini-breaks. 

Strike had woken a while later, turning towards her and smiling, reaching for her hand. He had kissed it briefly, his sleepy eyes looking directly into hers. Robin had giggled at the absurdity of the formal gesture, and then leant across and kissed him on the mouth. She had seen his eyes flutter closed as her lips touched his, and she felt an upsurge of satisfaction and hope. She had sat, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, and announced her intention to make coffee. She had got up and headed for the kitchen, and as she threw a smile over her shoulder, she had caught Strike watching her walk away.

***

Strike reached the bar, but found his path blocked by other guests. He raised a hand to signal to the barman that he was ready to order, and tried to see over the partygoers' heads to where he knew she was perched on a bar stool. A flash of gold caught his eye, and he spotted her: she'd been beckoned out of her seat by Ilsa and the same women who had walked into him at the entrance. They were pulling her towards the dancefloor, laughing, ignoring her shaking head; she rolled her eyes, grabbed her drink and followed them. Strike heard the barman calling to him. He bought a pint of Estrella and leant back against the bar, sipping the lager and feeling free, in the relative darkness, to watch the dancers.

***

Robin reflected that she'd never really been one for dancing. She'd done some lessons as a girl, but horses had interested her more; she'd given up before ever attaining a trophy or medal. But this dancing was different. She'd been to clubs in her first year of university, but she'd mostly sat in booths sipping vodka and orange while her friends had danced the night away. She recalled the first time Matthew had visited her, in the very first month of her university course. He'd told her that he wanted her all to himself, not gyrating on a dancefloor where anyone could be looking at her. She had found this romantic at the time, and had agreed to stay in the shadows, for his eyes only.

Robin knocked back the rest of her cocktail, thinking that if her divorce had given her anything, it was the freedom to do exactly as she pleased whenever it pleased her. Would she go to her grave never having shaken her arse on a club dancefloor? She was thirty. If not now, then when? She waved to catch Ilsa's attention. 

"Do they do shots in this place?"

"Of course they do!" replied Ilsa, grinning.

"Good. Tequila?" 

Ilsa laughed out loud and sped off towards the bar, returning ten minutes later with a tray of shot glasses, a bowl of lime wedges, and a cellar of salt.

***

"All right, mate," said a familiar, cocky voice. "Didn't bring Lorelei with you, then?" 

Strike gave Wardle a raised eyebrow, watching the younger man settle himself on the next bar stool.

"That was over ages ago. More than a year," said Strike.

"Really?" Wardle seemed genuinely surprised. "Coco reckoned it was back on again."

Strike jumped a little. "You haven't brought - "

"No, I'm not a fucking idiot. Although I would have liked to see you try and explain that one," joked Wardle.

"Yeah, well, it wouldn't have been fucking funny," said Strike under his breath.

"Calm down, you miserable bastard. It's a party."

Contrary to what Wardle thought, Strike was enjoying himself. Despite the DJ playing what was increasingly resembling the cheesiest wedding playlist he'd ever heard, Strike was perfectly happy sitting at the bar, drinking his beer, and watching Robin dance exuberantly with her friends. She'd done a couple of shots and seemed to have a new cocktail in her hand every time he looked up, but she seemed to be holding it well. Strike wondered if she would be needing support later, and resolved not to get hammered himself.

"How's April?" 

Wardle glanced sideways at Strike. "She's fine. Go and ask her yourself if you want."

Strike hadn't noticed her before, but now saw her sitting in a booth chatting to Vanessa and Oliver. 

"They're getting married," said Wardle, following Strike's gaze.

"Yeah," muttered Strike.

Wardle looked sideways again, and then grinned into his beer bottle. "Won't be long, mate. Don't worry."

And he clapped Strike on the back and wandered back over to his wife.

***

Robin was laughing, her hair a little sweaty, the strobe lights dancing in her eyes. Strike watched her talking in Ilsa's ear, grateful that he'd introduced them and that Ilsa was becoming such a good friend to her. He drank his beer, wanting to talk to her, but determined to leave her to it.

A rhythmic guitar riff began, and the women around her squealed. Strike watched Robin's face fall, before she caught herself and hitched a smile back on. It wasn't like before; it was hollow, insincere. Strike felt a sharp little pain beneath his ribs as he realised the song must have been released when she was at university. 

_Better move, 'cause we've arrived, looking sexy, looking fly…_

Robin moved with the music but it was clear her heart wasn't in it, and she scanned the room absently. Strike kept looking, waiting for her to find him. When she did, he gave her a slow smile, love and warmth writ large across his face. She smiled back a little sadly, but didn't look away. Deliberately, Strike winked. She pressed her lips together to stop herself from giggling, and her smile finally reached her eyes. 

Robin did a small upwards flick with her head, beckoning Strike onto the dancefloor with her. Strike was delighted to have made her laugh. He furrowed his brow and shook his head. He waited for the lyrics, and then mouthed along:

_I don't think you're ready for this jelly._

This time, Robin burst out laughing. 

***

Songs merged together in a medley of chart toppers; while Strike might have disparaged the cheesiness, the DJ certainly knew his trade. The floor filled up and stayed full while the DJ ripped through party classics, nineties pop punk, and the hits from Grease.

Robin was still out there, more cocktails behind her, swaying and shimmying and waving her arms. She wasn't a bad dancer, Strike thought; a little self-conscious, but she looked like she had rhythm. He grinned as he realised he _knew_ she had rhythm. He told himself to behave.

Robin was having the time of her life. She desperately wanted to talk to Strike, but they had time; for now, she was relishing the feeling of abandoning restraint and dancing until her feet were sore. She had stopped only to shriek and throw her arms around Shanker, who had turned up around eleven with a magnum of champagne for her. She didn't ask where he'd procured it.

Shanker had headed straight to the bar and bumped knuckles with Strike. The two men sat, chatting, for a while before Shanker had excused himself to call Alyssa, who was heading over after her shift had ended. Strike shook his head, marvelling at the difference in his friend since he had met his girlfriend. Strike supposed that Shanker had Robin to thank for his new found domestic bliss. Strike laughed and bought a fresh pint.

A familiar drum beat started, and the dance floor vibrated under fifty feet tapping on its wooden surface; Kenny Loggins began to sing, and Robin's eyes found Strike's once more. She was completely carefree, now; she mouthed the words to him, twisting and shaking her hips, eyes closed as she sang along.

_I've got this feeling that time's just holding me down._

Strike mouthed back:

_Bit rude._

Robin was a picture of confusion. Strike flicked his eyes down at his right leg and mouthed:

_Footloose?_

Robin's eyes widened comically and she clapped her hands over her mouth. Her face shone with mirth as Strike started laughing, and she joined in, and they both felt the tinglings of the connection they had forged the previous night. 

"Whatchoo laughin' at, Bunsen?"

"Nothing," replied Strike, pushing Shanker's pint over to him.

"Bollocks," said Shanker. "Yeh look like yer 'avin' a stroke."

"Robin," admitted Strike. "She's funny." He wondered why he was sharing this with Shanker, but the words had fallen out before he could stop them.

"Fackin' 'ell," returned Shanker. "You've got it bad, Bunsen." 

"Thinking a woman's funny means I've got it bad for her?"

"No. The stupid fackin' look on yer face does though."

Shanker grinned widely, and Strike laughed. He touched his glass to Shanker's in tacit agreement, and Shanker shook his head.

***

"I used to love these!" yelled Robin in Ilsa's ear as guitars came screaming through the sound system. Robin picked out Strike in the crowd once more, meeting his gaze before mouthing along with the singer's brash voice:

_Stop making the eyes at me._

Strike grinned and shook his head marginally. Robin felt the heat from his stare move all the way up her legs and then linger on her waist. Strike waited a few lines and then sang:

_You're dynamite._

Robin couldn't stop smiling; she felt ridiculously giddy, and she turned away from him slightly lest someone notice what was passing between them. But as she turned, she saw Ilsa's gleeful face look quickly away, and she realised she was fooling no one. She decided she didn't care, and turned back to Strike:

_I bet that you look good on the dancefloor._

Robin held her hands palm up and tried once more to beckon him towards her, but he simply shook his head and gazed back at her, looking relaxed and happy with a beer in his hand and his eyes firmly on her. Robin shrugged and turned back to Ilsa, exchanging contented smiles with her friend. When she turned back towards the bar, he was gone.

***

Robin danced until she felt she couldn't dance any more; she danced until her toes were numb and her calves ached. She'd spoken to everyone, laughed with everyone, and this had been one of the most enjoyable nights she'd ever had. She pulled Ilsa into a hug, registering her surprise but holding her close for a second or two. 

"Thank you," Robin said heartily. Ilsa squeezed Robin's hand.

"You're welcome. And it's not over yet. More shots!"

Robin laughed and agreed, accepting a glass and knocking back the pink liquid with a grimace. As Ilsa busied herself passing the tray around to the rest of their group, Robin felt a hand gently stroke her hip, and then stubble graze her neck. She felt a warm body behind her and a deep voice in her ear growled, "I _know_ you look good on the dancefloor." A sharp smack on her backside, and the warmth was gone.

Robin stood, trying to get her riotous hormones back under control, and the speakers began to pulse with a playful hip-hop beat.

_I like big butts and I cannot lie…_

Robin laughed and called to Ilsa. "I think that's my cue to go and sit down!"

Ilsa waved and Robin headed for the bar.

***

"You haven't danced with me," said Robin pointedly.

"I don't really dance," replied Strike. He remained seated on his bar stool, but he pushed an espresso martini over to her. She accepted with thanks. 

"I'm sure you'd enjoy it," said Robin, standing in front of him. She had a mischievous glint in her eye, and Strike couldn't help but obey its invitation. He put both hands on her hips and tugged her towards him, so that she was standing between his spread knees. She sipped at her cocktail as synth keyboards and drums kicked in around them.

_Captured effortlessly, that's the way it was…_

"I'm certain I'd enjoy it."

Strike pulled her closer, his hands gripping the curves of her backside, his arms caging her in. Robin put her drink down on the bar and laid her hands on his shoulders. 

_And now we're flying through the stars, I hope this night will last forever…_

And as the powerful voice swung into the chorus, Robin leaned down and kissed him with all she had, passionate and hard, her hands gripping the hair at the back of his head. Strike's hands ran up her spine and back down as he returned her need with his own, his mouth exploring hers, a small groan escaping his throat. 

They pulled apart and looked at each other for a beat, and then an earsplitting whistle rent the room; they turned, and their friends were clapping, whooping, cheering. They heard Shanker's voice above all others: "about fackin' time, Bunsen!" Ilsa had tears in her eyes, and Wardle was laughing. Jonathan looked at the floor, embarrassed, and Nick raised his glass in a mock salute.

Robin stuck out one middle finger at the room in general, and pulled Strike back towards her to the sound of ringing laughter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Songs:
> 
> Thinking Out Loud - Ed Sheeran  
> Dark Horse - Katy Perry ft. Juicy J  
> Problem - Ariana Grande ft. Iggy Azalea  
> Bootylicious - Destiny's Child  
> Footloose - Kenny Loggins  
> I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor - Arctic Monkeys  
> Baby Got Back - Sir Mix-A-Lot  
> Ain't Nobody - Rufus & Chaka Khan


End file.
